


The Nightmares of the Reclusive Mind

by action_cat



Series: If John Fell Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Shooting, jelly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/action_cat/pseuds/action_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John fell, Sherlock and John have gotten right back on track, except for one thing. John keeps having nightmares, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nightmares of the Reclusive Mind

**Author's Note:**

> So this is after John gets back, about a few months. I know Sherlock might be portrayed as a bit softer, and kinder, but honestly my life is hell right now so I'm doing my best. Thanks.

"Aaah!" John sat up in bed, breathing heavily as though just run a great way. His eyes were wide open, and he was scared. John put a hand on his face, covering his eyes.

"Mmm?" Sherlock opened an eye and peered up at John.

"It’s…Nothing. Go back to bed, Sherlock. Just another nightmare." John said shakily.

"John." Sherlocks’ long fingers pried Johns’ hand off of his face. He looked at John’s face, John’s eyes red from crying. John clenched his fist underneath the bedcovers and looked over at Sherlock.

"Come over here." Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes.

"Okay." John mumbled, blinking fast as he laid down next to Sherlock. The latter opened his bright blue eyes.

"Sorry. So very sorry. I didn’t want to wake you." John mumbled.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock muttered. John sniffed again, and suddenly he was in Sherlocks’ arms. He blinked again, hard, and suddenly his chest was tight.

"Everything is going to be okay…" Sherlock mumbled, falling asleep, his fingers tangled up in Johns’ hair. John sniffed again, and then, sleep came suddenly.

"I’m off to get jelly, alright? We’re out of biscuits and milk." Sherlock called as he exited the flat.

"It's jam, right, see you in an hour." John said, focused on the newspaper, a engaging article about the mysterious disappearances of bees. He heard the front door close, and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The images of last nights nightmare was seared into his brain, and he couldn’t get it out of his head.

Determined to figure out what or who it was that was torturing his dreams, John got up and walked into the bedroom.

"God, Sherlock. Do you ever clean?" He muttered, dodging the piles of socks and other various garments that littered the floor. And that wasn’t the only thing that made the bedroom into a vast jumble of mountains and valleys. Great, towering piles from old cases were stacked, bookshelves took up most of the room, and the window was cluttered with the bones of who knows what.

Finally, John arrived an old desk in the corner of the room. In the drawers, he took out paper and a few charcoal pencils, used commonly to help the clients figure out what or who they needed to remember. Old drawings littered the floor, mostly of a girl with blond hair and golden eyes, staring defiantly at the viewer. The man who had described her was quite unnerving, and Sherlock couldn’t quite deduce him.

" Never could. No matter. Why would he bring home a Belgian Teakettle?"

It had seemed, almost like Sherlock had known him before. The bits and pieces Sherlock knew was that he was Scottish with a eccentric sense of style. But however unnerving, the man left later, and they hadn’t heard of him since.

Sitting down in an old chair, John let his mind relax. He focused back onto last night, right before he had woken up Sherlock. Then, images flew through his mind.

He was on the roof, staring at the back of a man dressed in black.

He was standing on the edge, staring down at Sherlock.

He was in the hospital, tubes strapped into him, and the man visited him.

The man had told him dangerous, horrible things, and those words flew across Johns’ mind like a pen across paper. His face. What does he look like? Almost… He was pale, dark hair, stubble, and his eyes….

Beep. Beep. Johns’ phone rang, and as though woken from a trance, he jumped up and fumbled for it.

"Hello?" He knew he sounded cross, but that was probably more important than whatever this person had to say.

"John, it’s Mycroft. Get outside this instant, and get into the car. Bring Mrs. Hudson. No buts, or I’m coming up myself." The phone clicked, and John cursed. He hadn’t time for any of Mycrofts’ silly games, but it must be important if he had to bring Mrs. Hudson. He sighed, swerved around the piles of clothing, and walked out of the bedroom.

"Mrs. Hudson! Grab your coat. " John grabbed his coat, and the papers were shoved into the pocket. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was already ready, coat, scarf and all. She glanced nervously at John, and the two walked out of Baker Street.They hopped into the cab, with Mycroft in the front seat.

"What the hell, Mycroft? I was busy." John said, angrily.

"Yes, Mycroft, I was in the middle of....cooking. Do tell us why you abducted us." Mrs. Hudsons’ tone was calm, but her face registered fear.

Mycroft sighed. “As you are aware, Sherlock was going to the market a little over an hour ago. As far as we know, he procured everything, paid, and walked out. At that moment, a car drove past and when it passed Sherlock, he was on the ground bleeding out. He was shot.”

Mrs. Hudson gasped, her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes watered, and John soon realized that his chest was tight and he was blinking fast like last night. But this time, no reassurance of the nightmare would come.

"He was shot?”

"Yes, and we’re off to the hospital. Now shut it, I have to think."

They arrived at the hospital shortly after, where they learned that Sherlock was stable, but his pulse was unusually high. One by one, everyone went in, until John was the last on left. One by one they left, and John had no choice but to go in.

"John." Sherlock said heavily, each breath requiring a lot of energy and looked rather painful. John sat down on the chair next to his bed.

"Are you alright? I should’ve gone with you, you always get into trouble when I’m not around." John prattled on and on, while Sherlock just looked on, his eyes tired and red. Eventually John stopped, and he leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, he felt a thin hand slide its’ way into Johns’, and John clutched it very tight. His chest was growing ever tighter, and a few tears dripped down his cheek. Sherlock sniffed, and when John looked at him again, his eyes were watering and red.

"The...shooter...hit...the...jelly." Sherlock said each word slowly and painfully, as though each word cost him a breathe. John gave a weak laugh, and grabbed his hand ever tighter. He put his head down onto the hospital mattress. Sherlock tried to hug him, as well as a wounded man could. John looked up, his eyes meeting Sherlocks', and he scooted closer to him, resting his head on the bedpost. He never left that area, except for a few necessities for the next three days, until Sherlock could go home.

Since he had been an army doctor, the surgeons let him stay when they removed the bullet from Sherlock. He didn’t cry, but gripped the hand tighter. The pulse was still high.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock didn’t leave the bed much. It was hard to walk, and, well, he didn’t need to anyway. Eventually the old curtains were torn down, moths fluttering everywhere, as Sherlock protesting violently. ("If I could get out I WOULD but I CAN'T so don't take down my CURTAINS!") As did the old chair, and a few unnecessary maps of Mycrofts' living room. Life fell back into sync, although weirder smells came from Mrs. Hudsons' flat. 

But as weeks progressed, John slowly remembered who the man was that pushed him, and concluded that with Sherlock’s evidence that the man who shot him were the same. But even though Sherlock had been shot, it wasn’t he who needed help. John still had nightmares for the rest of the week, steadily growing worse. Every night, Sherlock consoled and soothed John, and as every night, they would fall asleep in each others arms. Nothing happened much for the next few weeks, until the night before Sherlock’s bandages came off, and John remembered.

"Sherlock. I know who it is." John shook Sherlock, and Sherlock, groaning, opened an eye to console John once again.

"We've been over this, it's just a nightmare, and Mycroft doesn't have pink poodles in each arm for his portrait. He has cake, remember?" Sherlock mumbled crossly as he rolled over. John sat up, pulled Sherlock back over. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared warily at the army doctor, ready for another discussion. He sighed, then sat up and started to get out of bed.

"I'll make some tea, right?" Sherlock swing his feet over and was almost about to get up when the words he heard made his face turn white, drained of color, and sit down slowly back into bed.

"It’s Moriarty."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading. I did put a Doctor Who reference in there, because it makes a bit of sense if Ten came to see Sherlock if they worked on a case previously. If you have any suggestion, please write below.


End file.
